


By The Warmth Of The Fire

by Chechilia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possession, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 01:39:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16075664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chechilia/pseuds/Chechilia
Summary: When Merlin is late bringing him dinner and looks disheveled when he finally appears, Arthur doesn't think anything of it. When his servant begins to act oddly, however, he grows suspicious, until there can be no doubt that there is something wrong with Merlin : the dagger aimed at his throat is enough of a clue.





	By The Warmth Of The Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This type of fics is probably one of my favorite to read and write : short, canon era, magic revealed/love confession, and a healthy dose of hurt/comfort. I hope you'll enjoy it !
> 
> Additional Warnings : Mention of violence and minor injury caused by fire.

The quill glides smoothly on the paper, tracing one after the other the words Arthur carefully chooses. His speech to his father's council isn't due before five days at least, but he prefers being prepared : he might have a way with words, but he prides himself on being thorough, and there's not way to tell when his father will attempt to corner him.

Besides, Merlin likes to read his speeches beforehand, and is often surprisingly insightful on subjects he should by all means have no knowledge about.

The sun dipped low while Arthur was pouring over the latest patrol reports, but the few candles disposed strategically around the room are enough to see by. Their flames flicker, as if swayed by an intangible wind, and cast shifting shadows on the naked walls. Winter has yet to spread its first tendrils in the land, yet the chambers are cold ; setting his quill aside, Arthur ponders lighting a fire in the hearth, but figures he shouldn't do his servant's work anyway.

Nevermind that Merlin is getting late, and should have brought him dinner already. Nevermind that the cold in his rooms might be due to the stillness in the air and his servant's absence, rather than an uncommon chill. Nevermind that Arthur is starting to get worried over his servant's disappearance. Apart from a king's funeral pyre, lighting a fire isn't a prince's work, Arthur thinks petulantly. Merlin should do well to remember that.

As if on cue, the doors to Arthur's chambers open and Merlin appears, looking abashed, a dinner plate held in one hand like an offering. There's a suspicious looking twig in his hair and his breeches are stained at the knee, but he looks otherwise unscathed, which does wonders to turn Arthur's concern into annoyance :

"You're late," he states, voice deliberately light. "Why, pray tell?"

Momentarily distracted by the way his servant is biting his lower lip, Arthur watches him as he ducks his head and softly closes the door before hurrying to place the meal on the table, hands fluttering to position the plate of cheese, ham and fresh fruit to the prince's convenience.

"My apologies, Sire," Merlin replies, looking at Arthur from under his lashes, smile devious. "I had to make sure Cook didn't go overboard with your meal, I know how much she likes to spoil you."

He looks pointedly at Arthur's middle, quirking up a meaningful eyebrow, but his smile falters when he catches sight of Arthur's glowering and he lifts a shoulder in the tiniest shrug :

"I was out gathering herbs for Gaius," he explains, his lovely lips quick to form the words, "but he asked for a specific plant you can only find in that particular clearing in the forest, and I found some but then I got lost, and it was already late, and he needed me to bring some medicine to one of the council members, and..."

Arthur tunes out Merlin's babble, the incessant chatter a welcome distraction from the dull realities of speech writing. There is something strangely relaxing in Merlin's voice, his endless monologues a soothing counterpoint to stressful evenings and their induced headaches. Tonight, however, Arthur fails to find solace in his servant's rambling, and it's with tense shoulders that he moves to sit at the table, picking up a piece of cheese as he goes.

"Take care that it does not happen again," he interrupts rather rudely, and Merlin abruptly falls silent. "You are servant to the prince, not some lowly footman."

"Yes, Sire," Merlin singsongs. "Shall I remind you that I am also the physician's apprentice ?"

Arthur's brow furrows at the cheek in Merlin's voice :

"And that should not interfere with your duties," he points out, eyeing his servant from the corner of his eyes. "Now light me a fire. It's too bloody cold for an early autumn night. And serve me some wine when you're done."

Merlin visibly pales at the order, a light frown marring his forehead, as if the mere prospect pains him. Still, he nods, bites his lip and turns to the hearth without deigning to answer, kneeling purposefully to position the first log. His movements are quick, practiced, yet Arthur watches him carefully as he stands back on his feet, eyes a bit too wide as he goes to a corner of the room to retrieve a candle, which he uses to ignite the fire. There's something rather endearing in the way he holds the candle, Arthur thinks. As if he's afraid to get burned, his long, slender fingers wrapped gracefully around the stick, his arm almost rigid held far from the rest of him.

Arthur bites off a smile and returns to his plate, pushing the cheese around, caressing with the thoughtful tip of a finger the two pears and three apples Merlin brought him.

Once the fire is crackling joyfully in the hearth, swallowing the logs, the red and gold lights lick at the sharpness of Merlin's cheekbones like flames. Arthur doesn't know if it's because their warmth is too sudden or too intense, but his servant flinches away from them, eyes glowing briefly. Arthur stares at him, mesmerized by the play of shadows on the angles of his face, but Merlin goes to retrieve the wine and the moment is lost.

"What's the occasion?" Merlin asks as he sets the jug of wine aside before stepping back with a pleased smile.

"Why would a prince need an occasion to drink, Merlin?" Arthur replies pleasantly, voice just this side of teasing.

He wraps his fingers around the heavily decorated goblet, skin brushing against smooth metal and cold stones, and swirls the deep red liquid with a gentle hand. He doesn't drink though, his gaze heavy on Merlin.

"Because you don't want your future subjects to think you're that kind of man, Sire," his manservant quips back, a hint of a smile curling at his lips.

Arthur snorts, not sure if he should be amused or offended, but Merlin takes the choice out of his hands as he cocks his head to the side, eyeing Arthur's plate rather curiously :

"You aren't eating," he states, voice soft as if he's afraid of overstepping - which is ridiculous, because Merlin never cares enough for propriety.

Arthur feigns to relax in his chair, tilting his head back slightly, but his muscles never loose their stiffness :

"I'm not hungry," he lies, pushing the plate toward Merlin with practiced carelessness. "Do you want some?"

Merlin shakes his head, looking puzzled :

"Thank you," he replies hesitantly, "but Gaius promised me some stew. I'll just leave the plate here, if that's alright with you. In case you want to eat later."

Arthur nods, seemingly unconcerned, and Merlin starts moving about, bending over to retrieve the prince's tunic from where he threw it on the floor after training, grimacing at the sweat soaked material before putting it in a basket with the other clothes he has to wash. Words tingle at the tip of Arthur's tongue, but he forces himself to remain silent, considering, as Merlin gets behind him under the pretense of making his bed.

Later, Arthur won't be able to pinpoint how, exactly, he knew something was wrong. It may be because the training of a warrior sharpens the instinct, turning it into something animal, almost visceral. It may be because, as a prince, Arthur knows how to notice inconsistencies and add them up together. Or it may just be that he knows Merlin too well.

Anyway, when he catches the glint of the blade, it only takes him a split second to react, and he blocks Merlin's arm right before the dagger reaches his throat. He doesn't have time to praise his own reflexes, though, as he twists his upper body halfway to deflect a second blow before jumping away from the chair, his goblet clattering on the floor.

Uncaring of the rich wine splattered on his breeches like bloodstains, Arthur takes a step back, eyeing Merlin carefully, calm despite the wild pounding of his heart. His servant's muscles are locked, his knees slightly bent as if he's ready for another attack, and he holds his dagger in a firm grip. Before he can move, though, Arthur manages to force the words past the tightness of his throat, his voice a feral growl :

"Who are you?"

Merlin - or the assailant that looks and talks like Merlin - makes a curious sound at the back of his throat, as if he's surprised Arthur is asking at all. He smiles, cocking his head to the side in an appraising manner :

"You're an odd one, princeling," _something_ says through Merlin's curled lips. "How did you know I wasn't him?"

Merlin's voice is colder now, his tone inquisitive, yet his smile only stretches further. He scrutinizes Arthur with fascination, blue eyes searching, a faint darkness swirling in their depths.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he says pleasantly as Arthur tries to move toward his sword instead of answering. "You don't want your dear manservant to disappear forever, do you?"

He lets out a little laugh as Arthur blanches, having no choice but to halt his movement :

"What have you done with him?" Arthur nearly shouts, dread filling his chest like ice. "Where is he?"

"I haven't done anything, princeling," Merlin promises as he spreads his arms wide. "He's right here with you. I merely...borrowed him, for a little while."

"What do you mean?" Arthur demands, though his voice is weak and his pride bristles. "You're not him. He's not there."

"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," his servant chides, shaking his head. "Merlin is here. Right," he says, tapping his own chest, "here. Trapped, if you will, but very much alive. For now."

Cold fear licks at Arthur's spine, the last two words ringing in his ears like an otherworldly sentence. His heart stutters at the confession, and it's only thanks to years of extensive training in court etiquette that Arthur somehow manages to keep his features blank.

His eyes that betray him though ; they always do.

"Who would have thought," the creature impersonating Merlin crows, "that you, of all people, would fear for the life of a simple servant?"

Arthur bristles at the thinly veiled insult :

"What do you want?" he bits out, anger allowing him some merciful composure.

"No, that won't do," the creature says through Merlin's lips. "Why do you expect me to answer that when you still haven't told me how you knew I wasn't _Merlin_?"

"You are nothing like him," Arthur spits, a fierce protectiveness laying ownership on his heart. "You may look like him, share his voice ; you may control his body and trap his mind, you don't act like him, you don't talk like him. You are nothing like him."

"Ah, but see," the creature replies, unfazed at Arthur's outburst, "this is where you are mistaken. I am, in fact, very much like him. Every event he ever lived, every memory he ever owned, every hope, dream, secret, all is mine now. And I played my role perfectly. I did everything right : the utter lack of respect for your station as prince, the amusing chatter to keep you distracted, even the missing bits of cheese on your plate. What gave me away?"

Despite the panic clawing at his chest and making his breathing tight, Arthur remains stoic. He can't afford to lose himself now - for Merlin's sake.

"Details," he admits, though reluctantly. "Merlin would have noticed the cold and lit the fire without my prompting. And there's no way he would have served me wine so perfectly not a drop was wasted."

Merlin's eyes flicker to the goblet on the floor, the blue of his irises unusually dark in the candlelight, and he pursues his lips, contemplative.

"That's not enough" the creature states, decisive. "You'd have been suspicious by then, I give you that. But how did you know ?"

The last word is demanding, the gentle tone an underlying threat. It's like being caught in a trap, Arthur thinks. If he wants to know what happened to Merlin, he needs to keep the creature talking ; if the creature told the truth and is really inhabiting Merlin's body, then Arthur needs to find a way to bring his servant back.

Either way, his only choice is to answer truthfully :

"The pears," he explains, fighting the urge to curl his hands into fists. "Merlin knows I'm allergic to them. You might have access to Merlin's memories, but I doubt you had time to review them all. And he might be the most incompetent servant in all the five kingdoms, but I know Merlin would never purposefully hurt me."

His voice softens without his prompting, the unshakable certainty etched in his words a surprise to them both.

"You know him so little," the creature says, making Arthur clench his jaw to quiet an instinctive protest, "and yet you trust him so much your first reaction upon being attacked by your own servant is that, rather than giving in to the urge to kill you, he's been replaced, enchanted...possessed?"

The way the creature emphasizes the last word is telling. Many enchantments are able to override the will of a man, but possession is something else ; where magic allows sorcerers to control other people, the two entities - enchanter and enchanted - remain separate. In case of possession though, the second entity controls the body from within.

Now all Arthur has to do is to figure out who, or what, is currently inhabiting Merlin's body.

He's about to ask the question burning at the tip of his tongue when Merlin's lips shape in a cruel smile. It startles Arthur, to see this expression on his servant's usually so kind features, the beaming smile morphing into a mocking smirk :

"It's sad, really," the creature muses, "how little of this trust is returned."

Arthur eyes him warily, but he replies nonetheless :

"Trust is given," he says, voice hoarse. "That I allow him to hold my life in his hands doesn't mean I expect him to do the same."

He can't deny it hurts though. Of course, there's a possibility that the creature is lying through Merlin's teeth, but somehow Arthur doesn't think this is the case. He's always known, if only by instinct, that Merlin's been keeping secrets from him ; and even though he never asked, he's aware, still, that Merlin's silence is as good as confession on how much he trusts his prince.

"Ah, yes," the creature admits, magnanimous. "But trust is also earned, don't you think?"

The implication that Arthur might not be worthy of Merlin's trust is crystal clear, and the words sting that much more when Arthur realizes he can't find a retort nor deny them. He can't keep his nails from breaking through the skin of his palms, the sudden pain blissfully grounding, and he tries to breathe through his nose, aware that the only way he'll ever be able to know is to get Merlin back. And ask.

"Oh, princeling, there's no need to fret," the creature promises, feigning understanding. "After all, if you knew what, exactly, your servant has been hiding from you, you wouldn't trust him either."

"What?" Arthur breathes out, paling slightly.

The creature laughs, delighted, and the sound is sharp like the edge of a blade - like the pain slicing through Arthur's heart :

"You have no idea, do you?" Merlin's voice crows in triumph. "Your servant is so much more than the bumbling idiot he likes to pretend he is."

That, at least, doesn't come as a surprise. Despite Merlin's oddities, his quirks and the sometimes disturbing way he has to handle sketchy situations, Arthur is aware that Merlin is anything but stupid : his sharp tongue and bouts of wisdom are enough of a proof of that.

"I know he isn't a bumbling idiot," Arthur says despite knowing he's playing right in the creature's hands. "He just has an uncanny ability to act like it."

The creature nods distractedly, brow furrowed. It twirls the dagger in Merlin's hands, feigning nonchalance, and Arthur knows to prepare for the next blow. Except, nothing could have prepared him for that :

"I sure hope so." There's an edge of playfulness in Merlin's voice, and shadows are dancing over his features as the blade reflects the light of the fire. "If he didn't," the creature continues, "how long do you think his magic would have remained a secret?"

The air freezes in Arthur's lungs, shortening his breath to a mere whisper. His entire being screams at him to laugh it off, to protest, to protect the fragile layer of denial he built around his heart, but his tongue is tied. His tongue is tied, still against the roof of his mouth, and the painful swirl of anger in his chest leaves no doubt as to what he really believes, down to the marrow of his bones.

Because no matter how terrifying it is to think of Merlin as a sorcerer, no matter how deceiving the lies and acute the betrayal, it makes sense. It makes a frightening amount of sense. How many times did inexplicable things happen to the both of them? How many attacks were avoided, by bandits or sorcerers, how many fallen branches, lucky stumbles, and odd victories?

How many times has Arthur seen Merlin's eyes glow gold, and dismissed it as a trick of the light?

"I don't believe you," he rasps out, heart fractured between rage and loyalty.

"Of course you do," the creature replies, Merlin's features a mask of abject gentleness. "You don't have a choice."

And Arthur does believe it, gods know he does. Merlin having magic is a truth he overlooked for far too long. But his chest feels too tight and he needs to breathe, to weave together the fragile threads of his sanity, and lying is the only way he has to regain his composure. If he wants a chance at saving Merlin, he has to come back to his senses and _think_.

Because amidst the whirlwind of his emotions and the chaos of his thoughts, there's one thing he doesn't understand : why would the creature reveal the existence of Merlin's magic now ? Why not use the prince's willful ignorance as an advantage ? Arthur looks back at his servant, who is staring at him with darkened eyes, an amused smile curling at his lips. What's in it for the creature ? Why does it want to kill him ? Why possessing Merlin to do so ?

"What do you want?" he asks with as much steel in his voice as he can muster despite the worry plaguing his mind.

If his senses, honed in years of council meetings, were less sharp, or if his attention were elsewhere, he would miss the surprise flashing across Merlin's face, the faint downturn of his mouth, the light furrowing of his brow. Beside them, the fire crackles, and the creature flinches.

"Revenge," it replies bluntly, head cocked to the side. "I want to make your father pay for his madness. I want to make him cry for every scream I let out on the pyre. I want to burn his kingdom to ashes like he ordered to burn me alive. I want to kill you, princeling, and destroy every other thing your father cares about."

There's bitterness in Merlin's voice, harsh and unforgiving. The creature's words are spiteful where they were measured, angry where they were careful, and it's enough to spark Arthur's understanding : he knows what took possession of his servant. He doesn't think the creature realizes what it revealed, but for it to have died on his father's pyre can only mean one thing : it used to be human.

When he was a child, his favorite maidservant liked to tell him stories, about the way of the land and its inhabiting creatures. They were old legends, tales of a time she thought was lost. She told him about dragons and griffins, high priestesses and fallen kings. She told him about vengeful spirits too, how they strived on grief and sorrow, tied to the living world with no means of escape.

Merlin's eyes narrow, and suddenly his smile turns calculating :

"But I admit to being thankful," the spirit says, voice low and smooth like honey. "None of it would be possible if I hadn't found a host who shares my wishes."

Arthur's heart lurches in his chest, the implication that Merlin may not be as fond of him as Arthur is hitting way too close to home. But that Merlin considers him a friend or more doesn't matter, not here : Arthur knows where his loyalty lies. The spirit's snide tone doesn't fool him.

"Merlin doesn't want to kill me," Arthur murmurs, the promise a balm on his wounded heart. "If he truly wanted to, he would have done it long ago."

"Don't be so sure of that, princeling."

Merlin's lips shape the words with care and his eyes are flaring, but Arthur senses the unease. He knows Merlin's features like one knows something cherished : how many times has he wished to smooth the lines on his servant's brow, to trace the slope of his nose, the bow of his lips, to caress his cheekbones with the pad of his fingers, slowly, just to see if they were as sharp as they seemed? Right now, Merlin's expression conveys the truth : the spirit is worried.

Something is wrong here, Arthur is sure of it.

"After all," the spirit continues, pushing his advantage and smiling wider, "if he didn't, how come he hasn't tried to stop me from killing you ?"

Arthur swallows with difficulty. The words of the maidservant, heard long ago and half-forgotten, spring back to mind. Vengeful spirits strive on pain, she said, and will stop at nothing to send their victims in throes of madness. Arthur knows he has to think rationally, or risk losing Merlin. And the latter option negates the very idea of a choice.

Something of his thoughts must have shone in his eyes, for the spirit twists Merlin's mouth in a mocking smirk. The fire throws shadows across his face, but the darkness of his irises doesn't waver despite the dance of the flames :

"That's right," the spirit murmurs, eyes searching. "The only reason I control him so completely is because he allows me too. He's all mine, and there's nothing you can..."

Arthur's eyes widen as it dawns on him :

"But you don't," he says, the truth of the statement heavy on his tongue. "If you did, why did you try to kill me with a _blade_?"

The spirit snarls as it realizes its mistake, but it's too late :

"If you could control him completely, you would have used his magic by now," Arthur rushes out, hope fragile in his voice. "But you can't. You can't, because Merlin is still there somewhere, fighting you."

The spirit bares Merlin's teeth, rendered powerless by Arthur's certainty. His anger shines in his eyes, his perfect stillness a counterpoint to Arthur's heartbeat, and suddenly his expression turns mockingly sad :

"And yet I am still the one in charge," the spirit tries, raising a hand to contemplate it. "Fascinating how that works. Why do you think I was able to possess him in the first place?"

The question rings true, and Arthur's features close off. He knows why. The servant told him that, too. He knows why the spirit was attracted to Merlin, and how it managed to overpower him. But that's a conversation he will need to have with Merlin, and Merlin alone.

"I might not be able to use his magic," the spirit adds, tone soft, and his words hold a particular weight Arthur fails to understand. "But in the end, what difference does it make? I can still kill you."

"You can still try," Arthur corrects, voice hoarse. "You know I won't let you."

"I know you won't," the spirit counters, lips stretched in glee. "But who knows how much damage this body can take?"

The dagger glints in Merlin's hand and Arthur's heart leaps in his throat :

"NO!"

His cry echoes in the chambers as he throws himself at Merlin, hand closing like a vice around his wrist to hold the dagger still. A fist crashes against his face, splitting his lower lip, and Arthur retaliates by twisting Merlin's wrist in the hope of relieving him of the blade. Merlin howls as his wrists cracks and Arthur clenches his jaw.

"Remember, princeling," the spirit hisses, mirroring his thoughts. "It's not me who will feel the pain."

It tries to hit the prince again, but Arthur manages to grab Merlin's other arm, effectively immobilizing him. Thankfully, Merlin's strength is no match against Arthur's, years of farmwork powerless to counter the training of a Knight. Yet, despite his slender built, Merlin is by no means weak, and Arthur grits his teeth as he struggles to maintain his hold.

When it realizes Arthur is gaining the upper hand, the spirit tries to kick at his stomach, but Arthur only grunts at the blow and twists his body, sending Merlin hurtling to the ground. Without giving the spirit time to recover, he follows suit, straddling Merlin's body and keeping his arms flat at his sides.

"Merlin, I know you're here," he tries, voice urgent. "You have to fight him, okay? Just..."

The spirit laughs hoarsely, desperately trying to escape Arthur's hold, but the prince doesn't relent, leaning over Merlin's body to hold him still.

"He won't hear you," the spirit rasps out, voice splintering like ice. "I won't let him."

"Let him go," Arthur growls, his hands like manacles on Merlin's wrists.

As the spirit shows no sign of complying, struggling still, Arthur tries again :

"Merlin, if you can hear me, I know you can fight it. And I know you must be hurt and scared but I promise I will keep you safe. You have to fight it, Merlin. Please."

He's breathless and his voice cracks toward the end, but his words prevail : Merlin suddenly stills, body tense, jaw clenched in a mixture of pain and exertion, and there's a flash of gold in his eyes.

"Arthur," he whimpers, "you have to..."

He clamps his mouth shut, magic flickering under his skin, and the gold fades from his eyes as he breathes out :

"Arthur, you have to kill me."

"I won't hurt him!" Arthur snarls, holding fast. "You really think I would fall for this?"

He's trembling, his mind is a whirlwind, but he still has enough presence of mind to remember the servant's warning : killing the host is fruitless. The only way to get rid of a vengeful spirit is to banish it from the living world - and the servant never told him how.

But Arthur knows Merlin was there, if only for a second, reaching out before the spirit took back its control, trying to tell him something.

"What do you need?" Arthur presses, urgent. "Merlin, you have to tell me, how do I banish it?"

Merlin's eyes widen, the deep blue almost black in the stroke of a candlelight, and fear twists his features. His muscles bunch up as the spirit vainly tries to overthrow Arthur before they relax, Merlin's body going limp. Arthur would think him unconscious if not for the brightness of his eyes, sparks of gold flickering within. Merlin's lips are parted in a desperate intake of breath, and a droplet of sweat is sliding down his temple, testament of the war raging inside his mind.

"You need..."

He trails off, making a wounded sound, and pants through gritted teeth as he fights for the ownership of his body. Overwhelmed by the pain showing on his face, Arthur curses his powerlessness but doesn't relinquish his hold.

"You need..."

Merlin's fingers spasm and he cries out, eyes burning gold :

"Fire!"

And doesn't that explain the spirit's earlier attempts at keeping the flames away from Merlin, be it as harmless as that of a candle?

It takes Arthur a split second to react and he extends a hand toward the hearth, where the fire is still mercifully crackling. Aware that he's running out of time, thoughts of his own safety relegated to the back of his mind, Arthur grabs a log, biting back a scream at the burn, and thrusts it at Merlin, who managed to hold the spirit back long enough for Arthur to act. The log hits Merlin square on the chest, and the flames lick at his skin as he throws he head back on a wail, the fire consuming the spirit, finally granting it rest.

Panting, Arthur lets the log fall uselessly from his throbbing hand, now red in places and covered in angry blisters. It clatters on the stone floor and rolls away, flames sputtering before burning out, thankfully away from Arthur's favorite rug. Heart pounding in his chest, lungs working on too little air, Arthur sits back on his haunches as Merlin's slumps on the floor, eyes fluttering shut.

"Merlin ?"

There's a thin layer of ash on the servant's chest, but his skin is otherwise unmarred, as if the spirit provided a barrier between the log and Merlin's body. Using his good hand to hold his weight, Arthur leans over Merlin, shaking him carefully, praying that the spirit didn't damage his mind, at default of his body.

"Merlin?" he repeats, worry coloring his voice at the stillness of the servant's chest.

Merlin's eyelids twitch and he blinks slowly, irises back to their insolent blue, and the relief that washes over Arthur cuts his strings like a puppet's. His body sags as he exhales, and he doesn't even think before gathering Merlin in his arms, burying his head in the servant's neck, breathing him in.

Merlin makes a curious sound at the gesture but doesn't pull away, and his hand is weak where it clutches at Arthur's back.

"Arthur?" he mumbles. "Wha..."

Heartbeat sluggish where Arthur's is strong, skin pale and clammy to the touch, he swallows nervously, and the sound is loud in the sudden stillness of the room.

"Do you remember what happened?" Arthur asks, pressing the words on Merlin's skin.

His servant shakes his head slowly, and Arthur's lips skim over his pulse point at the motion.

"I'm not sure," Merlin replies, voice thin. "I think I was gathering herbs for Gaius? Somewhere in the forest. And then I felt something...it was cold, as if I'd just fallen into a river in winter. I couldn't think straight, but I vaguely remember getting back, and I went to the kitchens?"

He trails off, wondering, and Arthur nods :

"What else ?" he asks, and his hand tightens briefly on Merlin's shoulder.

"I came here to bring you dinner," Merlin says. "But I knew something was wrong, I just couldn't..."

His body tenses abruptly and he whimpers, his hand clenched at Arthur's back :

"I tried to kill you," he whispers, voice pitched low as if it hurts him to even say the words. "I almost..."

Arthur shushes him, a wave of unexpected tenderness washing over him :

"You didn't," he promises. "I'm fine. I'm fine, alright?"

He feels Merlin nod and straightens, his knees on either sides of Merlin's hips, ignoring the pain shooting up his arm as he looks down at his servant. Merlin looks tired - exhausted, even - but there's a light frown marring his brow, and Arthur sighs. It was only a matter of time, anyway.

"What else do you remember?"

Merlin's frown deepens and he bites his lips under Arthur's scrutiny :

"It's...blurry," he admits, shaking his head apologetically. "I could hear myself talking, but the words seemed far away, almost void of meaning. I don't remember well, I think you talked about..."

There, his eyes grow unnaturally wide, and his skin, already pale, turns ashen. His hands flutter in a half-hearted gesture to push Arthur off him, but Arthur doesn't budge, clasping his shoulder and pressing him flat on the floor.

"Yes?" he prompts.

"The magic," Merlin breathes out. "You talked about the magic."

Arthur knows that the spirit was telling the truth, yet having it confirmed so easily, without ornaments nor artifices, is enough to make his hand clench into fist. Anger swipes over him, heightened by the flare of betrayed trust, but that fire fizzles out the second he sees Merlin close his eyes, hard, as if he's afraid of what he might see on Arthur's features if he kept them open.

"I'm sorry."

It's barely a whisper, but Arthur hears the words, clear as day, even with the mournful crackle of the logs in the hearth. Their sincerity is beyond doubt, but it's the pain in Merlin's voice that gives Arthur pause.

"Merlin," he sighs, anger draining out of him as if it never existed.

Slowly, as to not startle his servant, Arthur leans over until he can press his forehead against Merlin's, the gesture too intimate for their station yet strangely fitting.

"As I told the spirit, Merlin, you have my complete trust," he says, breath fanning over Merlin's skin. "I knew you had secrets, I understood that long ago, even if it wasn't my place to question them. You've never tried to harm me, despite getting the chance time and time again. So even though it will be hard for me to accept it - to accept you being a sorcerer - I promise I will try."

Merlin is staring at him, eyes wide, and the way they shine gives Arthur the courage to continue.

"I won't let any harm come to you," he vows. "On my honor as prince, I swear to keep you safe."

Merlin sucks in a sharp breath, blue eyes shining with a relief so acute it looks like pain. His body trembles as Arthur straightens and his gaze is heavy on his prince, but he doesn't dare speak, as if he knows such an oath cannot be tarnished by words of gratitude.

Remembering himself, Arthur moves away to stands on careful legs, before extending his good hand to help Merlin up. He steadies him as he wobbles, lips stretching in a faint smile :

"Like a newborn colt," he mutters, shaking his head fondly.

"Try getting possessed by a spirit hell bent on revenge," Merlin snips back, though his voice is weak. "See how long you can hold it back."

"So you remember that, too," Arthur notes, eyes searching. "What else?"

Merlin shrugs lightly :

"Not much," he replies, biting his lower lip in obvious dismay. "I tried to fight him, to keep him away from...my magic," he gulps, but continues when Arthur doesn't show other reaction than the twitch of an eyebrow. "I was losing ground when I heard your voice, calling out to me. And then you asked how..."

He trails off, blinking, and cocks his head to the side in wonder :

"How did you figure out it was a vengeful spirit?" he asks. "And how did you know to banish it, and not..."

_Kill me_. He doesn't say the words but Arthur hears them anyway, and it takes him a few seconds of strained silence to answer :

"When I was a child," he says carefully, "one of the servants who took care of me liked to tell me stories. She mentioned once a village that had been decimated when a vengeful spirit had possessed the people leaving there. She told me to recognize the signs, and warned me that killing the host only served to strengthen the spirit."

Merlin looks surprised - it's true that Arthur rarely mentions his childhood - but nods nonetheless :

"Yeah," he breathes out, "it does. Even more so if..."

He looks away then, frowning briefly, and starts again :

"Right," he says. "So I fought the spirit to give you the answer you needed, and then you just..."

His eyes widen as his gaze falls, bewildered, on Arthur's injured hand :

"You clotpole!" he shouts angrily, making Arthur jump."Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"

Arthur winces but obediently raises his hand when Merlin clamps his own around his wrist, grimacing at the pain :

"It's fine, Merlin," he sighs. "It's just a burn."

"Does it look fine to you?" Merlin snaps, seemingly uncaring that he's berating the crown prince as he assesses the injury, his touch gentle.

Fighting an amused smile, Arthur refrains from telling him it doesn't exactly feel fine, either - the skin itches around the blisters and his whole hand is throbbing dully - but Merlin doesn't relent :

"You have to get that under water," he orders, "preferably cold but not too much. Your basin will do. I'll fetch Gaius."

"I'd rather not," Arthur says, shaking his head slowly to show that he means it. "In fact, I'd rather no one learned about what happened tonight," he adds meaningfully.

The way Merlin pales shows that he understood exactly what Arthur meant. He may have promised Merlin his protection, but his father would rather kill the servant himself than risk a repetition of the night's events. And Arthur can't allow that.

"But your hand," Merlin says, biting his lip raw, "you can't just..."

He trails off and clears his throat, looking impossibly nervous :

"Or maybe," he tries, "I could...I mean, I've never been very good at healing magic but..."

Hope flutters across his face as Arthur considers him, weighing his options. In the end, though, what he told the spirit remains true to his heart : he trusts Merlin with his life. Without a word, he nods, extending his hand.

"Alright," Merlin murmurs, eyes shining bright and unguarded. "I'll try."

He brings Arthur's hand closer to him and trails a finger along the unmarred skin, murmuring a few words Arthur doesn't understand as gold bleeds into his irises. Magic whispers on his skin as Merlin closes his eyes, and Arthur's fingers tingle, the pain receding mercifully as his hand heals, the blisters disappearing one by one to leave pink skin in their wake.

Merlin opens his eyes when he's done, and a tentative smile graces his lips when he notices the awe written all over Arthur's face.

"Thank you," the prince murmurs.

Silence stretches over them and Arthur is loathe to break the intimacy of the moment, but there's one more thing he needs to do before they can try to put the incident behind them :

"I've been meaning to ask," he starts, voice soft. "Merlin. Do you know why the spirit chose you as its target?"

Merlin winces as the question, and his lips press in a thin, bloodless line. He doesn't look at Arthur though, his blue eyes resolutely turned to the swaying fire.

"I'm not sure," he replies. "He was seeking revenge against the crown, he might have thought I would be an easy access to you."

"You're probably right," Arthur muses, thoughtful, his eyes never leaving Merlin. "But this is not what I was asking. You see, when she told me the stories, the maid explained to me why the village had been attacked. She said that while vengeful spirits strive on pain, they are born of anger. This is why the inhabitants succumbed : they fell pray to their own bitterness, and the spirit stirred the rage in their heart to turn them against one another."

Merlin's head is bowed in contemplation, yet the clasp of his hands betray his absolute attention. A shiver runs down Arthur spine despite the warmth of the fire, and the words catch in his throat when he adds :

"I think the maid wanted it to be a lesson for me," he says. "She told me that I should be careful, for I could easily end up like them, if I ever let those feelings override my thoughts. Hate and anger. Remorse and grief. Sorrow. Sadness. Fear."

Merlin flinches as the last word rings around them, and Arthur heart clenches to know that he was right. Merlin isn't hateful, and his anger is always controlled. Remorse and grief, sorrow and sadness, all of them Arthur has seen his servant weather without drowning. But fear...

"It's not easy," Merlin murmurs, "to live as a sorcerer in the court of a king who despises your very existence."

He hesitates a second, eyes flickering toward Arthur, and his voice is soft when he says, the words a confession :

"Lost hope and heartbreak, too."

Arthur tries to meet his eyes, but Merlin evades him, biting his lip as the light of the fire dances over his face :

"I've known fear since I was a child," Merlin adds. "But love..." He shakes his head. "You know how vengeful spirits relish in people's pain, right ? That's why the spirit came after me, I think. He sought revenge, but chose the one it would hurt the most to kill you."

Arthur loses his breath as he catches Merlin's gaze, the raw emotion evident in the glistening tears, and a shiver runs over his skin as he dares to hope.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

"You don't...It's fine," Merlin replies, but his tone is bitter. "It's not as if you can help it. I'll just..."

He moves to the door, but Arthur grabs his arm :

"Merlin," he calls, voice hoarse. "Once the spirit realized your magic was off limits and your skills no match against mine, what did it do?"

Merlin looks back at him, brow furrowed, and Arthur answers his own question :

"It revealed your magic to me," he says, gentle. "It tried to make me believe you wanted to kill me. And then it tried to me make watch you die. Why is that, do you think ?"

Merlin blinks slowly, uncomprehending, until Arthur softens his hold :

"It must have known," he adds, baring his heart. "It must have realized."

Merlin's eyes widen, alight with hope, and the warmth shining within makes Arthur shiver as he moves to cup Merlin's cheek in his palm. Merlin quivers and his eyes flutter shut at the caress, but in the end it's him who initiates the kiss, tilting his head to the side and fitting his mouth against Arthur's. The beating of his heart belying the softness of his touch, Arthur draws him in an embrace, the tip of his tongue tracing Merlin's lips, seeking entrance.

They kiss leisurely, stealing each other's taste, tongues tangling in a tender caress, and only part when they yearn to breathe. Despite the servant's exhaustion, Merlin's smile is bright and joy is written all across his features. And Arthur knows then, with abundant clarity, that for all Merlin has done for him, it's time for him to return the favor.

"Thank you," he murmurs to the quiet of the room.

Merlin doesn't answer but kisses Arthur again, and his touch is like fire on Arthur's skin - a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ! <3


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